Ash Requiem

In the crater fire lies,

ashes fly like fireflies.

In the distance, seekers cry—

something here is wrong.

The ashen soil bears no fruit,

grassy tuft nor deeper roots.

In discussion, point is moot:

the birds here sing no song.

'Pare for heat and dryest breeze—

nothing left, not husk of trees,

nor stump or lump, or deadest leaves.

Ev'rything is gone.

All of this from but a spark:

kill the life, but kill the dark.

Once a verdant forest park—

whistling through the eaves.

The wind blows hard without a break,

dusty clouds, a big mistake.

Nothing stops death in its wake;

the soil waiting long…

Long for life or more tomorrows—

May or June or end to sorrows.

Something soon, for time is borrowed—

dead even the strong.

All of this from just a need:

warmth of body, simple greed.

The act of war a king decreed—

to ruin, I know, this act will lead.